


The Most Dangerous Games

by dragonpyre



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Supernatural, The Hunger Games (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Canon-Typical Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-14 03:17:00
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,458
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10527702
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragonpyre/pseuds/dragonpyre
Summary: District 7 is where Dean has lived his whole life. Hunting for food and ghosts has been his life style ever since his mother died. He would do anything for his little brother without question, even volunteer as tribute when his name is called in the reaping. Dean is then thrown into a confusing and dangerous game where one false step could mean the death of you. How will he be able to survive the games and make it home to his brother while keeping everyone else alive as well? For Dean Winchester, his life just got a lot harder.





	1. Welcome to Panem

Dean woke up to early morning light filtering through closed curtains. The faint smell of pine drifted in from outside, coming from the forests where his districts’ men would chop down acres of trees. That was life in District 7, the lumber district. Unless you were a Winchester. They made their way through life hunting. And not just plain bow and arrow, kill-a-deer hunting, but monster hunting. There were quite a few of them out there, and an iron fence to keep them out, but sometimes that fence broke, or rusted because the border guards forgot to clean it, and monsters got through, like the demon that had killed Dean’s mom. Ever since then, his dad, John, had trained him and his younger brother Sam how to hunt and kill the things that lurked in the shadows, so they didn’t hurt anyone else.

  
But that wasn’t the only fear out there. There were also the Hunting Games, a yearly event where two tributes from each District would be offered up and sent into an arena, where they would spend a week, and whoever was still alive at the end of it won. The winners would be shipped off to a boot camp and were taught how to fight creators, and then join their districts army until they had served ten years, and then they could retire. And there was only on rule in the games, win. The remaining winners each got a reward that was split up evenly between them all. The fewer survivors, the more the cash. And that was what drove the other tributes to want to kill each other, something that had been going on for quite some time now. And the only rule outside the games, besides the obvious regulations, was that you couldn’t hunt if you haven’t been in the games. Well, Dean sure obeyed that rule.

  
His father had been in the games when he was younger, which was how he knew how to hunt things, but Dean hadn’t been, and neither had Sam, but their father had wanted them prepared, so he trained them in secret in a clearing just outside the district, which was a week away from their house. So they would pack up provisions and spend a week out in the wilderness, training and hunting actual animals, which they would bring back to their home in the District. They didn’t live in the poorest District by any means, but it was still nice to have a bit more on the table, seeing as their fathers monthly pay from the capital from being in service didn’t cover everything.

  
Speaking of hunting, Dean was coming back from a simple hunt, which was for food and herbs, seeing as he wanted to get a few things from the forest for the feast after the reaping, which was that day, as well as plants needed for protection and summoning spells, since they had run out. He had been using traps and knives, the one thing he was excellent at. He had learned how to fire a gun at a young age, but he never used one while hunting, unless they actually stumbled upon a monster, which was rare. They couldn’t afford to waist the bullets. Guns were already hard to come by as it was, no use pushing it.

  
Cracking an eye open, Dean looked around. He was in a room at the Roadhouse, a bar on the side of the road that ran from the lumber mill to the nearest town. He had crossed into the District a few days ago, having to climb the iron chain link fence into it. He couldn’t see it, but he knew there was a pipe that ran under the fence that was filled with salt, the purpose of both boundaries was to keep out nasty things, like the things he had been taught to hunt.

  
Sitting up, the young adult stretched, moaning slightly as his tense muscles loosened themselves. A few of his joints popped, relieving some of the pain in his back. Normally he hated mornings, but he didn’t have time to hate this one. He had until mid morning to get back to Lawrence before the reaping, so he could get tidied up. Town was only a few miles away, walking distance really, but he didn’t want to risk it, so he would be taking his horse, a black mare named Impala. He had found her in a meadow while on a hunt one day and had decided to bring her home, seeing as he was tired of the week long trek to and from hunting. Now it was only a few days.

  
Standing up, he tugged on his boots, seeing as he had slept in his clothes, and grabbed his sack of food which he had collected that week and hoisted it over his shoulder, the rough burlap scratching his skin. So far, he had caught two rabbits, a pheasant, many different types of berries, and quite a few tubers (potatoes). So far so good, but now he had to get back to the District, it was reaping day after all. And he had to be there for his brother, seeing as it was his first year. He had turned fifteen back in May, which was the earliest anyone could be to be in the games, so his name was only in once, but there was always a small chance. Dean was nineteen, and was on his second to last year. He wouldn’t be very concerned if his name was drawn, but it was still scary just to think about being in an arena with twenty-four other kids his age fighting for survival. And the things they faced in there, he had never encountered before. Sure he had read about them and had trained, but he had never actually fought against a monster before, and he wasn’t too eager to either.

  
He walked downstairs and into the bar area, where Ellen and her daughter Jo were cleaning up for the day. “Hey Dean,” Ellen greeted, smiling warmly at him. He flashed a smile back, giving an even bigger one to Jo, who he had playfully been hitting on for years. They went to the same school and had been friends for a while, along with his younger brother Sam.

  
“Hey Jo,” he said flirtatiously, wiggling his eyebrows slightly. He heard a slight groan from Ellen, and if he wasn’t mistaken, an eye role.

  
“Hello Dean,” she said formally, standing up straight wear she was standing.

  
“You going to be at the reaping?” He asked, knowing she wouldn’t be standing with the rest of the children. She was Sam’s age, and would be with the older kids, like himself.

  
“We’ll wait and see,” she replied evasively, smirking a little. Dean loved it when she did that. She got the sass from him, he liked to think.

  
“Well, see you guys there,” he said, heading out the door. After another wave good bye, he left the building. They hadn’t offered him breakfast, but he hadn’t expected them to. Their deal was they offered the room, he gave them the board, meaning some of his food. Of course being a roadhouse they already had enough food, but who could pass up berries, seeing as they only grew in the wild forest outside the District.

  
Walking to the stable where he kept his horse, he pushed open the door, only to be greeted with the warm smell of horse feces. Gagging slightly, he walked up to the mare, who was nibbling on some oats.

  
“Hey Impala,” he whispered gently, stroking the horses velvety nose. “You miss me, baby?” Her only response was a snort, which sounded affectionate to him. Smiling, he pulled himself up onto the worn leather saddle, stringing his bag onto his back like a backpack. “Hah!” He said, kicking her lightly in the side, which sent her running off onto the hard worn path through the forest. The air whipped past his face as Impala ran through the woods. Insects occasionally smacked him in the face, but he didn’t mind. He always loved riding his horse, and if he wasn’t mistaken, she loved him too. That is, if horses could feel emotions.

  
They arrived back at his house, which was on the edge of town, by mid morning. The sun had just started to peek over the mountains in the east, sending golden light spilling over the land. The forest was still a dark silhouette, but he could still see it just the same.

  
Hopping off Impala, he led the horse to the stable out back, setting a bag of oats in front of her and filling her water trough by pumping the handle to it. After simple horse care, which was grooming and picking the hooves, he walked into his house.

  
“Dean!” Someone tackled hugged him as he walked through the door, someone short with long brown hair.

  
“Hey Sammy,” he said, ruffling the boys hair as he drew back.

  
“It’s Sam,” the younger boy reprimanded. “And weren’t you supposed to be home by yesterday?” He inquired, smirking up at him playfully.

  
“I never said that,” Dean lied jokingly, pushing past him and setting his bag on the kitchen table. He started to take off his coat, which was grimy and streaked with dirt, when his father walked in.

  
“Dean,” the older man said, addressing his eldest.

  
“Sir,” Dean said stiffly, straightening his back immediately and resuming his “soldier stance” as Sam called it. Their father ran their house like a boot camp, hardly able to show affection, making his boys mini soldiers like him.

“You said you would be back yesterday,” he said in a quiet, tired voice.

  
“I know sir,” Dean said, trying to shy away from the man out of shame. “But I miscalculated time,” he admitted, waiting for his father’s yelling.

  
“Damn it Dean!” John shouted, making Sam and him flinch. “You know that even the smallest mistake can mean the difference between life and death!” Dean tried to remain placid; the only thing showing his anger was his clenched jaw.

  
“I know sir,” he apologized. “I won’t do it again.” John sighed, stepping back. He appeared to be calmer now, but still slightly angry.

  
“Make sure you don’t,” he sighed, stomping off into the house. Dean watched their father go, shaken from his reverie by Sam’s voice.

  
“Are you going to get cleaned up?” Sam asked, looking over his brothers’ dirty frame.

  
“Yeah,” Dean said, looking down at his brother. “I’ll get on that. You get dressed,” he said, walking towards the bathroom. Sam complied, walking towards his room.

 

  
***

 

An hour and a bath later and everyone was ready. Sam was wearing a white hand-me-down button up that he had tucked into his trousers, which were faded from age and threadbare at the ankles, which were too short for him. Dean was wearing a button down as well, but this one wasn’t tucked in, and was faded blue in color, and trousers from his dad. John was wearing similar clothing, looking formal, and mournful, like he was on his way to a funeral.

  
“Dean,” Sam said, looking up at his brother with worry filled hazel eyes.

  
“Yeah,” Dean said. Sam hesitated before speaking, looking at the ground before looking back up.

  
“What if I get picked?” He asked, letting his brave-teenager façade fly out the window. He was shaking slightly and looked like he was going to cry. Dean’s heart wrenched at his sternum.

  
“You’re not going to that arena,” he promised, crouching down in front of the boy. He was now a foot shorter than him. Between his fourteenth birthday and his fifteenth, the boy had sprouted up like a weed, but he was still short.

  
“But what if my name gets pulled?” Sam asked again, his voice trembling slightly.

  
“You’re not going into that arena,” Dean said slowly, with more force behind his words. He was making his brother a promise, that he would step up for him, but Sam wasn’t hearing it. Instead of arguing the point, he nodded slowly, letting it drop. Frowning, Dean looked up at the boy with round green eyes, hesitating a moment before pulling him into a hug. The younger boy hugged back, hard. But Dean didn’t mind. As long as his brother was okay.

  
They left the house a little later, following the flow of people that were making their way towards the train. There were many towns in District seven, so they had to take a train to the capital city, where everyone between the ages of fifteen and twenty would be reaped. One male and one female. They boarded the train together, Sam with a death grip on Dean’s hand, with John trailing behind them. The train had no benches, so everyone stood in the crowded car for half an hour as the train made its way to the city.

  
When they got off, everyone of age was herded into roped off sections, divided by age and gender. Dean hugged Sam goodbye and went to the nineteen year old section, while Sam went to the fifteen year old section. He waited along with the rest of the District for their speaker, a man named Azazel. His signature look, aside from the capital fashion of strange suits that were deemed “attractive”, was his yellow contacts, which confused Dean’s understanding of how he could see. Then again, maybe he couldn’t and they were their just to look cool instead of the milky white color they would be.

  
“Welcome, welcome,” said a disembodied voice, soon followed by the man walking onto the stage from the justice building. He wore a sparkly green suit with odd edges and folds. But Dean ignored the strange fashion and focused instead on the man. “Welcome everyone to the 38th annual Hunting Games,” he said, smirking manically at the crowd. He unnerved Dean most of the time, and it didn’t help when he did the smile thing. “But before we get to the fun part, a word from our sponsors,” he said, making a dramatic hand motion to the screen behind him, which blazed to life with sound and color.

  
The next two minutes were filled with a documentary about how the Hunting Games got started, talking about the apocalypse and how it had left the world in ruins, leaving the rest of mankind to fend for itself, then forming the Districts of Panem, with each District having a different job. Then after the monsters were on the rise, they started the games as a way to pick the best hunters. Dean didn’t really understand why they weren’t all trained for hunting, but then again, if they all hunted, who would be left to do the work of the Districts?

  
After the movie finished, Azazel stepped forward, a grin plastering his face, and his yellow eyes staring at the crowd. “Well, as always, ladies first.” He moved towards the glass bowl stage left, and stuck his hand it, yanking the slip of paper out and ripping it open. Then he read the name aloud. “Joanna Beth Harvelle.”

  
Dean’s breath caught, his jaw clenching in shock. His eyes searched the crowd for the blonde. She was only a year older than Sam. Her name had been in there twice. But then again, her dad had been a victor, as had her mom. But he had died on a hunt. She knew how to take care of herself, but she was only sixteen. He watched as a girl detached herself from the group of other sixteen year old girls, and walked towards the stage. Her head was held high, but he could see the panic in her eyes, and that she was shaking. Dean felt a twinge of pity. Nobody deserved this, even if the chances of coming out alive were okay.

  
After she was standing next to Azazel, the man drew another name, this time from stage right. Dean waited with baited breath to hear his name. He wouldn’t be surprised if it was drawn. He had signed up for tesaree more times than he cared to admit, against his father orders of course. But the name that was called was not his. It was Sam’s.


	2. An empty promise

“Samuel Winchester.” Azazel announced, looking around the crowd again. Dean’s stomach dropped to the ground, his knees weak and his head light. This was not happening. Not to Sam. He had his name in there once! What were the chances? It took a moment for the young boy to detach himself from the other fifteen year olds as he made his way towards the stage, his movements slow and his steps small.

Dean looked up to see Azazel smiling manically down at him, which seemed to snap Dean out of his reverie. “No,” he breathed, moving forward, forgetting about all the other people in the way. “No!” He cried, now running. Sam looked back, his hazel eyes round and panicked. Dean didn’t think as he bolted forward, desperation to get to his brother fueling his progress. The peacekeepers standing between him and Sam tried to block his progress, but Dean pushed past them. “No, I volunteer, I volunteer!” He cried, desperate, trying to get to his brother. Nobody said anything, just remained quiet as the peacekeepers let go of the older boy. Dean ran to his brother, pulling him into an embrace. Sam shouldn’t be going into the arena, he didn’t have any training, he was too young. He would die soon.

“Dean, please no,” Sam sobbed into the older boys’ shirt, staining the blue fabric with tears. Dean would have chided him for acting like a baby, but now was not the time. All he wanted right then was to hold onto Sam and never let go, even the peacekeepers tried to pry him away.

“Sam, go find Dad,” he whispered into his brothers’ ear. He wasn’t sure if he heard, but the younger boy let go reluctantly, and Dean was escorted up onto the stage by the peacekeepers, their rough hands pulling him up. Once Dean was on the stage, he got a full view of the crowd. There were so many people. It seemed so impossible that Sam’s name had been drawn, and yet it had. And Dean had paid the price. Dean was shaken from his brooding thoughts by Azazel’s snide voice.

“Touching eh?” He said, slapping a hand on Dean’s shoulder. “What’s your name son?” He pushed the microphone towards Dean, who glared down at it before speaking with a strong, confident voice.

“Dean Winchester,” he stated, looking straight ahead with a stony face, his jaw set and his green eyes hard as the jade they resembled.

“And that was your brother I’m assuming?” Azazel asked his manner still light and joking.

“Yes,” Dean said through a firm jaw, not looking at anyone in particular.

“Well, now that that’s over with,” Azazel smirked, stepping back and away from the two tributes. “Go on and shake hands.” Dean turned towards Jo, who still had the façade of courage on her face. She stiffly stuck out her hand, which he grasped in his. They gave one shake, and then turned towards the Justice Building, where they would say their goodbyes.

Dean was lead to a plush room, full of soft, cushiony seats and pretty decorations. He hadn’t seen much of posh before, but he didn’t linger on it. Not even the velvety sofa seemed to calm his nerves. He glanced at the windows, which were bolted shut.

No escaping then, he thought, grimacing internally. A moment later, the door was flung open and he was met with a tackle hug.

“Dean!” Sam cried, sobbing into his shirt. Dean wrapped his arms around his younger brother, pulling him in tightly. “Why’d you do it you jerk?” Sam sobbed, choking on his words. Dean didn’t reply, but looked up to see his dad gazing mournfully at the two, his eyes glistening with wet.

“To save you, you bitch,” Dean replied playfully, the humor in his voice long gone. Sam only sniffled, hugging him tighter. He gently pried him off, seeing as they only had three more minutes together; he would have to fill them with as much as he could.

“Hey, listen,” he said, looking down at his brother. “You have to be strong, okay? Take care of dad, and Jo, and everyone. You’re the big man now.” Dean said, speaking softly. Sam nodded, whipping away a tear that had slipped down his cheek. Then, looking up at his dad, he said, “And you can’t forget him. Do not ignore him. He needs you, okay?” John nodded slowly, a lone tear trailing down his face. Then he did something Dean never thought he would ever do again, he hugged him.

“You be good boy,” he said shakily. “You remember everything I taught you.” Dean nodded, hugging his father back. He had never done this since before Mary had died, and he had never expected him to do it again.

“I will,” Dean promised, before turning back to Sam. The younger boy looked up at him with his puppy-dog eyes, the sight ripping Dean’s heart apart.

“You will come home won’t you?” he boy asked. Dean said nothing, knowing that he probably wouldn’t. He nodded stiffly, setting for an empty promise.

“Sure, you’ll see me again.” It wasn’t lying, but it wasn’t telling the whole truth either. Sam would see him on T.V, but Dean wouldn’t see Sam. At least the younger boy still got to see him before he died in the games. So there was that.

Then Sam removed something from around his neck, the necklace that Dean had given him when their dad hadn’t showed up for Christmas one year. It was brass, with a weird face and horns. Dean had bought it at the local trading post. It was one of Sam’s most prized possessions. “Here,” Sam said, handing him the pendent. “You’re allowed to bring one thing from home.”

Dean looked down at the pendent, shaking his head slightly. “No, Sam, I’m not ganna-“

“Take it,” Sam insisted, thrusting it forward. “So that you remember your promise.” Dean swallowed, hesitating before taking it and pulling it over his head. It dropped down onto his torso, where it rested with a comforting pull.

“There,” Dean said, looking back up. “I promise.” Teary eyed, Sam pulling Dean in for another hug, before the peacekeepers came in and pulled them away from Dean.

“I promise Sam,” he whispered, just loud enough for the boy to hear. He nodded in understanding, and that was the last Dean saw of him before the door shut.

  
***

After a visit from Ellen, he was escorted towards the train. He rode in a car for the first time ever. The experience was odd. It wasn’t bumpy, or windy like it was when he rode Impala. It was smooth, and very fast. The seats were soft and carpet-like, making it even stranger. Even through her fear, Jo couldn’t help but ogle, making Dean smile slightly.

Once they reached the train station, they were swarmed by cameras and flashing lights. Dean ignored them and stared straight ahead, making a bee-line for the train. He didn’t care about all the people watching him. He just wanted to get on the train and get going. Like ripping off a band-aid. Except this band-aid hurt a hell of a lot more than normal. Once they were on, it didn’t take long for the train to start and soon, District 7 fell behind them in a blurred green image of forest.

After thirty minutes of sitting silently in the main car, where there were platters exploding with foreign and colorful foods, Jo said, “So, what were the chances that we’d be in the games together?”

Dean smirked dryly. “Yeah, what were the chances,” he echoed. A small laugh escaped him, dry and homerless.

Silence resumed in the car again, leaving an awkward tension in the air. Finally, Jo spoke. “So do you know anything about Bobby?” She was referring to District 7’s mentor, Bobby Singer. He had served the regime a while ago, and was forced to retire when he became paralyzed below the waist, leaving him to mentor all District 7’s tributes.

Dean shrugged. “Not really,” he responded. He had only ever seen the man at reapings, and that was it. Truth be told he didn’t think he looked like much. Just a grouchy old man in a wheel chair. And in reality he wasn’t far off. A few minutes later, the man wheeled himself into the room, an empty glass in his hands. He stopped in front of them, looking them over. Dean stood up out of courtesy, Jo following suit.

“So, you’re Dean Winchester, eh?” The old man asked, staring up at him from his wheelchair. Dean nodded slowly, his eyes scrunched together in confusion.

“Bobby?” He asked, looking him over. He wore a plaid flannel and jeans, clothes that weren’t too uncommon in District 7, and a thick vest. He wore a frayed hat on top of his balding head, a beard snaking around his slightly flabby jaw. He was a thick set man, but not so much so that he was repulsive, but that he hadn’t gotten out in a while. That was probably do to his handy-cap.

“I used to work with yer dad,” he said. “Saved my neck a few times.” Dean raised his eyebrows.

“Really?” He asked. “He never mentioned you.” His dad had spoken of his work as a hunter, but he had never mentioned Bobby before, even though they saw him every year at the reaping, seeing as he was the mentor for the tributes every year since his retirement, which had been long ago.

“Ah well,” Bobby muttered, looking down. “That idjit.” Dan frowned. He had never heard such words from an elder before, seeing as most of them were kind and wise, not grumpy with a drinking problem, guessing by the whiskey in his breath. Dean glanced over at Lisa, who merely shrugged. She was in the same boat as him it seemed.

“He was a good man, and would have been an excellent father,” Bobby continued, looking up again. “But then Mary died, and I guess he just lost it, closed himself off from everyone. Poor man.” He got a distant look in his eyes, but shook himself from it shortly after. “I’m sorry he raised you the way he did. Remind me to pump him full of iron when we get back.” He said, wheeling himself around. Dean only smirked, watching as the man settled himself into a more permanent area, between two chairs, where he parked the wheelchair.

“C’mon yeh idjits, sit down,” he said, motioning to the chair opposite him. Lisa scurried over to the seat, while Dean took his time, running his hand along the fabric before plopping down onto the squishy seat. It was weird compared to his lumpy mattress at home, or the make-shift cots in the forest.

“So, you’re going to teach us, right?” Jo started, sitting forward a little. Some of her dark blonde spilled over her shoulders and down her side. “How to survive the games I mean.”

Bobby sighed, leaning back in his chair before speaking. “I’m going to do more than just teach you.” That confused Dean. He furrowed his brow, his green eyes dulling from the lack of light.  
“What does that mean?” Jo asked, voicing Dean’s question.

Bobby rolled his eyes before answering. “It means, you can learn how to kill those SOB’s out there, and work with theory, or you can know how to kill ‘em, like instinct.”

Dean had to admit, that was much smarter than just reading about them in some book. But Lisa had other thoughts. “But don’t we get trained on how to kill them?” She asked, scrunching her brow in confusion.

“They teach you the basics, the physical stuff. I’m gonna’ teach you the facts. Like how to kill a vampire, and what kind of metal burns demons.” Dean nodded unconsciously. He had been taught these things too, and trained. But that didn’t mean he knew everything. He was sure Bobby knew much more than him and he would tell them as much as he knew, so their chances of winning would be higher.

“Well,” Dean sighed, leaning forward. “We might as well start now.”


	3. Chapter 3

“So beheading vampires is the only way to kill them?” Jo asked for confirmation. Bobby nodded, taking a swig of his glass, finishing it up. They were at dinner, where there was an amazing selection of food. From mashed potatoes to scalped potatoes to steak to pork and so on and so forth. And that was just the first few courses. Dean had decided to heed Azazel’s warning about portion control, and was only taking so much each course, seeing as he wanted to save room for the next one.

“My dad told me that dead man’s blood works too,” Dean said, shoveling another mouthful of steak into his mouth.

“Well, it’s more like a poison really,” the older man responded, leaning back. “It weakens ‘em, but it don’t kill ‘em.” Dean nodded, chewing slowly.

“So wait,” Jo interjected, setting her fork down. “How are more vampires made, if it’s not a bite?”

Bobby took another swig of his alcohol before answering. “If their blood gets in yer system, yer done for.” Dean swallowed his steak loudly. That was unsettling. His dad had never told him that, but maybe they had found out more about the species. Leave it to Panem’s scientists to unearth more facts about them.

“Well,” Azazel said, changing the topic. “As fun as this conversation is,” he said, a sarcastic note on the word “fun”. “We can’t miss the reapings, they’re being broadcasted soon.” Dean grimaced internally. He didn’t want to live through that again. But he finished up his dinner and followed the others to the car that held the T.V, and reluctantly sat down to watch.

District 1’s tribute was a boy named Michael, and a girl named Lilith. They both look dangerous. Considering they were from a career district it made sense. District 2 was a girl named Anna and a boy named Castiel. He looked mild enough, but Dean could see under the tucked in white shirt and backwards blue tie, that muscles rippled underneath. He was a fighter, even if he didn’t look it. The next few district’s offered up average to weak looking tributes. One boy was named Kevin Tran, and he was District 12, and he was as skinny as a twig. Dean felt a twinge of pity for him. No way was that boy coming out alive. When it came to District 7, he and Jo both tensed.

Dean watched as Sam’s name was called, and again as he rushed forward, panicked and scared. It had hurt the first time round, but watching it from a bystanders point of view hurt even more. Once they were over, he left for his car, intent on forgetting all about that day, not wanting to remember the pain in Sam’s eyes, or mournful look on his father’s face. Not even the trembling of Jo’s lips as she tried to keep it together in front of the cameras. It all hurt.

  
***

  
Dean woke the next morning feeling tense and restless. His survival instincts still hadn’t gone away from when he had been in the woods yesterday. It was like culture shock whenever he came back from a long hunt, but this time it was even worse, seeing as he had gone from sleeping on elaborately placed branches in trees to soft, squishy capital beds. It was just weird. He got dressed quickly, changing into a soft black t-shirt that looked simple enough, and a pair of deep blue jeans, like they had never seen the light of day. He kept his necklace on, not wanting to lose it. He promised Sam he would keep it, and so that was exactly what he was going to do.

In the dining car, Bobby and Jo were already eating. He couldn’t see Azazel, so he assumed he was putting in his weird contacts. “Hey guys,” Dean said, sitting down next to Jo. She smiled warmly as him, unable to respond because her mouth was full.

“How’d yeh sleep boy?” Bobby asked, spreading an orange jam over a piece of toast. Dean shrugged, looking around at the food. There was a wide, but very different verity, of food lied out in front of them.

“So,” Bobby started. “Jo and I were just talking about skill sets when you came in. Do you have any?” Dean thought on it. Sure, he had lots of skills. He knew how to deal with every monster he might encounter, but specialized skills? He had no clue.

“I guess I’m an okay shot,” he admitted, looking the retired hunter in the eye. Bobby frowned at that, as if it wasn’t satisfactory enough.

“You gotta’ do better than that boy,” he grumbled, staring him down.

“I’m good with knives?” Dean offered.

“That’s better.” The old man said, taking a swig from his flask. Dean frowned. Wasn’t it a bit early for that?

Then Jo spoke up, finally able to speak after swallowing her food. “Oh, he’s more than good with them,” Dean looked over at her, frowning. “I’ve seen him hit a moving target fifty feet away. He’s damn good.” Bobby raised an eyebrow, looking back at the younger hunter. Dean felt his face grow hot. He wouldn’t say he was that good, but it was true. Of course he had only done it to impress her.

“And what can you do?” He asked, eager to change the focus from him to her. “Sow?” he teased. That earned him a deadly glare. He shrunk back a bit, flinching internally.

“I can do a few things. Believe it or not I’m actually pretty strong,” she said. “And I do have a knife collection. “Dean raised a disbelieving eyebrow. “My dad was a hunter too, tought me a few things before he kicked it on a hunt.”

“Anything else?” Bobby asked. Jo shrugged.

“I guess I’m alright with a rifle, like Dean. But I doubt we’re gonna have any guns in the arena,” she speculated.

“Well, you have three weeks to learn,” said Bobby, breathing out through his nose in a long sigh, before taking another swig from his flask. That was when Azazel walked in.

“Hello maggots,” he said in a cheerful tone, making Dean grimace. “We’ll be at the capital soon, so finish up the meal and get ready, because the next few hours are going to be painful,” he grinned, his yellow eyes gleaming with delight. Dean seriously wondered at his sanity. He was pretty sure there wasn’t much.

Ignoring Azazel, Lisa said, “So three weeks of hard-core training to live off of. That’s not much.”

Bobby shrugged. “Never said it was. And of course you gotta play the part for the capital, act all nice and look pretty,” he scoffed, rolling his eyes slightly. Dean smirked. No way was he going to act like a capital-loving dancing monkey. “It’s fer sponsors boy,” Bobby snapped, seeing Dean’s expression. “You need to get people to like you so you can get things to help you out in the arena. You do want to live don’t’cha?” Dean shrugged, a transparent lie.

“Well, you better suck it up princess,” he said, “Because we’re almost there.” He motioned to the window, where the train rounded a bend, and revealed a sprawling city nestled in the rocky mountain chain, near a glittering blue lake.

Jo breathed a “wow”, while Dean whistled. There were hundreds of buildings, all made of stone it seemed, like multiple Justice Buildings. It was a strange sight for the tributes of District 7.

“Just wait ‘till you see the fashion,” Bobby commented. Dean only raised an eyebrow, not fully grasping what he had said.

  
***

  
Dean should have heeded Bobby’s warning, but he just didn’t have the imagination for what he was about to witness. Colors he had never imagined, styles that seemed impossible, and over all a lot of fucked up people doing strange shit. Once the train had come into the station, they were swarmed by more cameras and people. Dean had done his best to smile and wave, while Jo hadn’t been pretending at all. She was gaping and absentmindedly smiling at everything, earning her a lot of Capital points.

After that they had been dragged off to some building where he had been scrubbed clean of anything on and under his skin. Including his skin. His eyebrows had been plucked, and he had been waxed in places he had rather gone unseen. Over all, the experience wasn’t one he was too pleased about. After almost two hours, he was lead to a room and given a robe to wear. He gladly put it on, thankful to cover his personal spaces. Soon after, someone entered the room.

“You must be Dean-o,” the man said. Dean looked up at him, confused. He had golden blonde hair swept aside where it seemed gelled in place, and he had a slight 5:00 shadow, but it was too well done for that, like it was intentional, and he had a perpetual smirk plastered on his face. But that wasn’t what struck Dean about him. It was the fact that he seemed, well, normal.

He wore a simple jacket, like the kind Dean would wear back in District 7. It was the color of dying grass, but it seemed to fit him, along with his faded jeans and worn boots. He just didn’t scream capital at all, and it was slightly unnerving.

“Yeah, Winchester,” he responded, offering to shake the man’s’ hand. He obliged.

“I’m Gabriel, or Gabe.” He said, introducing himself. “And I’ll be your stylist.” Dean grimaced internally. District 7 was the lumber District, so their attire had to reflect wood somehow, and just like District 12, you couldn’t make wood look good.

“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, seeing Dean’s face falter. “And don’t worry, I got it all planned out.” He winked, reaching into his pocket and pulling out a sucker, which he unwrapped and popped into his mouth. “Excuse my manners,” he said around the sucker. “I have a bit of a sweet-tooth.” Fair enough. Dean wasn’t really one to judge.

“So, can I get into clothes now?” Dean asked suddenly, tired of feeling the draft in-between his legs.

“Sure thing Dean-o.” He said, motioning towards the door.

“Don’t call me that,” he grumbled, following the man out.

  
***  
“I am not wearing this,” Dean stated flatly, crossing his arms over his chest, trying to ignore the embarrassed blush raising in his face.

“You look fine Dean,” Jo said, exasperated. “It’s me who looks ridicules.” She motioned towards her dress, which actually looked quite good. It resembled a birch tree, light brown fabric seeming to peel of it, and at the bottom. It looked like it would peel off at any moment. The shoulders were cut off, but the sleeves remained, running down her arms in see-through white fabric stripped with brown, like a real birch tree.

Her makeup was amazing as well, sparkly emerald eye shadow that slowly grew darker the further away from her eyes it went, which where ringed with brown eyeliner that made the whites of her eyes stand out further. Dapples of dark green gems lead away from the edges of her eyes, like rain.

“You look stunning; I’m the one who looks like an idiot,” He argued, looking over his own suit. It was a waist coat that was unbuttoned, with nothing underneath except his hard abs. It was embroidered with, swirling, white designs, vice versa to Lisa’s. His pants were simple enough, but had the pattern of bark stitched into it.

“Well, at least we both look like idiots,” she smiled.

“We’re in the same boat then,” he said, smiling a little. Just then, Gabriel, Bobby, and Azazel came over. The fashion designer had a lollipop in his mouth, again. He wasn’t kidding about that sweat tooth, Dean noticed.

“Alright,” said Gabe, popping the sucker out of his mouth. “In a few minutes, you’re gonna get on that carriage, and wave at the crowd, got it?” He asked. There was a mischievous glint in his eyes as he eyed Jo’s dress in satisfaction. Dean was put on edge by it.

“So that’s it, we smile and look pretty?” Dean asked, staring at each of them in turn. Bobby nodded grimly, Azazel smirked, and Gabe just looked on mischievously. Dean glanced back at their carriage. It was lead by two rich brown colored horses, the color of pine bark.

“Okay,” he said, looking over at Jo. “Let’s get this show on the road.” He started to walk over to their carriage when he heard Gabe call out.

“Remember, smile!”

Dean rolled his eyes and hopped onto it, taking Jo’s hand to help her up. Her heels were obviously not helping any. “You okay?” He whispered, concern shining in his green eyes.

She looked up t him with her blue ones, looking like she wanted to say something, but instead, she said, “Yeah, just nerves.” Dean nodded in understanding. He was about to be shown to the entirety of Panem, and he looked like a fool.

“Let’s just put on a smile for the cameras,” he said. He turned to look ahead, his heart beating hard in nervousness, when he was distracted by her hand grasping his. Raising an eyebrow, he looked down at it, then back up at her.

“For support,” she stated simply, not looking at him. Dean didn’t argue. Even when they weren’t a couple, he still cared about her. And he didn’t want her feeling bad at all.

Moments later, the horses started forward, and they were lead out of the stables and into the night. The sound of people screaming filled his ears, and he plastered a smile on his face. He lifted an arm to wave at the crowd, flashing his now gleaming white teeth at them. He saw a few attractive looking girls and winked at them. That should earn him some points. Only after Jo gasped did he look over.

Her dress was slowly peeling off, like the birch tree she resembled, revealing a beautiful green dress underneath. No wonder Gabe had looked so mischievous. It stopped peeling off when more than half of the skirt was striking green, leaving a contrast on her body, which was absolutely stunning. Even though she was somewhat of a little sister to him, he felt proud.

“You look amazing,” he said sincerely, looking her over. She only responded with a twisted smile that she tried to hide. “Really, you do.” He insisted. She didn’t respond. Then the horses stopped, in line with the twelve others in front of the Presidents mansion. He looked up, spotting the man himself. His name was Chuck, which seemed a far too mundane name for someone so important, but he lead their country, and he did a pretty good job of it.

“Welcome, tributes,” he started, looking down from his balcony at the twenty four teens below him. “Welcome to the 38th annual Hunting Games and may the odds ever be in your favor.” Dean scoffed. The odds were never in his favor. His being there proved that well enough. Jo squeezed his hand in an order to shut up, which he reluctantly obliged, only because he knew everyone was watching.

After that, the horses went into another stable under the Presidents mansion, where they unloaded and went to their new home for the next few weeks. They had the seventh floor, which was practically halfway up, so they got a decent view of the city, which sparkled with light below them. Before Dean could enjoy any of the pleasantries though, he changed into more casual clothing. Unfortunately the capital didn’t know what “throw back” meant, so he was stuck with designer jeans and a fancy silk shirt. He would have much preferred a plain black T, but that was not the case.

He met Jo outside her room, where they joined each other to go to dinner. The meal was split into courses, again, but this time, Dean didn’t bother with saving room. He just wanted to eat so he could go to bed. And after dinner, he did just that.


End file.
